


Love You to Death

by meyghasa (aazeris)



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-29 06:40:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20958917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aazeris/pseuds/meyghasa
Summary: Six months after Fenris walked out of her life, Hawke comes down with a mysterious illness.  Now he is back, but is it too late?





	Love You to Death

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry.

It was autumn in Kirkwall, which meant the city was draped in damp cold that was more reminiscent of winter than fall. Every day was humid from the Waking Sea, and an icy wind blew in from the north, making everyone miserable. 

It had been six months since that fated night that Fenris came and went from Hawke’s life. She had seen him but once since then; she tried in vain to get him to talk to her about what had happened, but all he had done was snap like an angry cat and stalk away. And like a patient cat owner, she let him come back to her on his own terms and in his own time. So far, he had not, and as time passed, Hawke began to wonder if she would ever see him again.

Not that she had had much time to think about it, save in the wee hours of the morning when her head was spinning and the walls were closing in on her. Now that the viscount was dead and the qunari were no longer a menacing threat, the tension between the templars and the mages was getting more volatile and it seemed like everybody had some task for the Champion of Kirkwall to take on. Particularly of late she had been spending an inordinate amount of time in Darktown, where the chokedamp was worse than anywhere else in the city, and constant fighting was wearing Hawke thin. 

It was an unusually quiet day when Hawke began to suspect something was wrong. She had slept poorly, fitfully, and suffered more nightmares than usual. When she awoke, she was hot all over and her throat ached as if she was being stabbed from within. Her throat had hurt mildly when she had gone to bed, but now it was agony to even swallow. More worryingly, her lungs ached and breathing was an ordeal. 

Still, it wasn’t like Hawke to get thrown off by a simple cold. She downed some tea with honey that Bodahn prepared for her, wrapped herself in a cloak to keep out the autumn chill, and headed to the Wounded Coast with Aveline, Merrill, and Varric in tow. 

“You okay, Hawke? You’re looking a bit piqued,” Varric said, keeping his voice casual despite the gnawing worry in his gut. Hawke looked, well, awful. Her coffee brown skin was pale and clammy, her deep red hair plastered to her forehead. She was leaning heavily on her staff and seemed to be struggling to catch her breath, despite the battle having been over for half an hour or more. 

Hawke turned a smile on him, but it was pinched at the edges. “Right as rain. I think—“ And whatever she thought would remain unknown, as she slumped to the ground with a clatter of armor. Her three companions rushed over in alarm, kneeling next to her.

“Daisy, can you do something? Maker’s balls, I wish Anders was here,” Varric muttered. 

Merrill worried her bottom lip between her teeth and held her hands out over Hawke’s stomach. “I’m not very good at this sort of thing, but I’ll try.” Her hands glowed with a blue light that was tinged green and red, and with a gasp, Hawke’s eyes flew open. 

“Buh?” 

“We lost you there for a moment,” Varric said, more relieved than he wanted to sound. “We better get you back to Hightown. Can you walk?”

Hawke pulled herself upright, using Aveline and her staff as support. “Oh sure,” she said casually. “No need to make such a fuss. It’s only a cold.”

—

Two days passed. Hawke kept to her bed at Varric and Aveline’s insistence, Crowley laying across her legs and refusing to leave his master’s side. She tried to eat that soft meals of soup and oatmeal that Orana prepared for her, but everything felt like knives going down, then made her gut roil horrifically. Sometimes she read, or wrote sloppily in her journal. Often - more often than usual - she found herself wondering about Fenris. She wondered if he was still in his Hightown mansion, whether more slavers had come to capture him. She wondered if he was eating well and if he was drinking too much and if, just maybe, he was thinking of her too.

By the dawn of the third day, Hawke was drifting in and out of consciousness, her fever blazing hot. Bodahn immediately sent a message to Varric, stating only that he thought it best that Anders come by without delay. Varric and Anders both arrived within the hour. 

“I’m so sorry to bother you, messeres,” Bodahn began, wringing his hands. “It’s just that the mistress has gotten so much worse, and I’m starting to suspect this isn’t just a cold.”

“You did the right thing, Bodahn,” Varric assured him, then he and Anders went upstairs and to Hawke’s chambers.

The room smelled like sweat and vomit. Varric forced himself not to gag, but Anders had smelled worse in Darktown. Hawke looked like death. She was asleep but it did not appear to be an easy sleep, her brow furrowed deeply. “Maker’s breath, why didn’t anyone call me sooner?” Anders cried, rushing to Hawke’s side. “‘Just a cold’ the Maker’s furry nut sack.” 

Varric worried a thumbnail between his teeth. Hawke DID look considerably worse than she had on their trip out to the Wounded Coast. But Anders was a healer, and healers knew sickness, and he would take care of it, no problem.

Only he didn’t. Anders poured his magic into her, even calling Justice to aid in the process, but Hawke did not improve. Anders felt a real spark of fear in his belly as he paused to regain his strength and his mana. 

“Why isn’t this working, Blondie?” Varric asked, unable to hide his concern or surprise.

“I don’t know,” Anders gritted out. “I’m trying everything I can think of but she… just isn’t taking it.”

He tried, again and again, as the hours wore by, draining and replenishing his mana several times. The most they could achieve was getting the furrow to disappear from her brow and her sleep to ease. Not once did she awaken during the healing, and Anders and Varric both were worried beyond belief.

By evening, Anders had nothing left to give. Bodahn insisted he stay at the estate in case anything got worse, and reluctantly Anders agreed. Varric promised he would be back again tomorrow. Orana spent the night by her mistress’s side, watching for any change, but none came, and by the morning, Hawke had woken only to throw up in her chamber pot before passing out again. 

—

By the time the week was out, Anders was exhausted. He spent all day, every day, pouring his magic into Hawke without success. She seemed only to be getting worse. Her fever was ever-present and she couldn’t keep any food or drink down. She got weaker every day, and slept often. When she was awake, she tried to keep her friends’ spirits high with a joke or two, but as time wore on and the sickness wore her down, even those little quips stopped.

All of Hawke’s friends had rotated in and out of the estate - all except one. Varric had made himself comfortable in the study, a glass of brandy graciously provided by Bodahn on the desk at his side. His mind was whirling. All of them were worried, but the fact that ANDERS was more worried than anybody gave him reason to pause. If the healer was worried… well, it couldn’t be good.

Varric sighed and downed the brandy in two gulps. He had a visit to make, and he was starting to think that it couldn’t wait.

—

Fenris was halfway through his second bottle of wine, brooding in front of the fire, when he heard footsteps on the stairs outside his room. His sword was in his hand in moments, the chair skittering backwards as he flew to his feet. It had been six months, and rarely anyone came to visit him anymore, not after what happened with Hawke. More proof that they were Hawke’s friends, not his. Bah.

“Broody? You home?” a voice called out.

Slowly, Fenris lowered the sword. Varric? He did not answer, and the door swung open to reveal the dwarf himself. He looked… awful, Fenris realized. There were dark circles under his eyes and his mouth was drawn into a thin line. Fenris felt his stomach drop; something was wrong.

“I… don’t really know how to say this,” Varric admitted, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “I don’t know the details on what happened between you and Hawke, but I know that she misses you. And if you… care about her, you’ll come to the estate. Immediately.”

Fenris looked away, refusing to meet Varric’s eyes. “Hawke… does not wish to see me.”

“I don’t think Hawke’s in any state to refuse you at the moment,” Varric said heavily. 

“What do you mean?” Fenris demanded, finally meeting Varric’s gaze.

“She’s… sick, Broody. Really sick.”

“Call the abomination,” Fenris spat.

“You think we didn’t try that already? Nothing he does works. We’ve tried everything and she’s just not getting better. It might—“ Varric cleared his throat and swiped at his eyes “—be time to start saying… goodbyes.”

Fenris dropped to the chair in disbelief, eyes wide and unseeing. Certainly, he had gone the better part of six months without seeing her, but it was always comforting to him to know that she was there, in her estate only a few blocks away, or playing Wicked Grace in the Hanged Man, or somewhere else in the city solving everybody else’s problems. The thought of a world without her was just… impossible. He didn’t note how long he sat there, but jolted when Varric’s hand landed heavily on his shoulder. 

“I thought you might feel that way,” Varric said, voice low and understanding. “You better come with me.”

—-

Fenris stood outside the door to Hawke’s chambers for a long time. He was awash in memories of the last time he had been here - the one perfect night followed by his worst, most cowardly mistake. How he hated himself now, when it was too late.

Finally, working up his courage, he pushed the door open. Anders sat on the edge of the bed, looking haggard, his face lit by soothing blue light. He did not notice Fenris at all, too intent in his work. The air was sour with the stench of sickness and rot. And there, in the center of the bed, head propped by pillows and looking impossibly small, was Hawke. He barely recognized her and wondered that someone could have withered so much in so short a time. 

Crowley noticed him first. He lifted his head and let out a happy bark, bounding off the bed to nuzzle his big head in Fenris’s hand. Anders jolted, the light in his hands dying, and stood, spinning to the door. His eyes narrowed, sparking with anger.

“What are YOU doing here?” Anders spat. 

Before Fenris could hiss a reply, Varric stepped in behind him and interjected. “I invited him. I thought—well, maybe we better give them a minute, Blondie.”

Anders hesitated, but eventually his shoulders slumped. He stalked out past Fenris, saying nothing else, and Varric followed suit, closing the door behind them. 

Crowley looked up at him and whined, then climbed back on the bed and draped over Hawke’s legs. Fenris was having trouble getting his limbs to move. It seemed a mile to Hawke’s bed, and he didn’t feel worthy enough to even be in the room with her. This was a bad idea, he should leave, and yet—

She looked so frail. His strong Hawke (not his, not anymore) was wasting away, getting weaker every day, and he had seen enough illness to know that this wasn’t going to get better. He felt ill, dizzy. Stumbling, he willed himself forward until he was at Hawke’s bedside, and he dropped to one knee next to it. His throat felt tight, and he couldn’t form any words, even if they would have been heard. For several minutes he knelt there, his hands clasped together as if in prayer, his head lowered. Finally, he worked up the courage to take one of her hands in his. It was cold, clammy to the touch. He held it to his cheek, pressing it between both his hands, and said nothing.

An hour passed and he didn’t move, didn’t mark the passage of time, didn’t notice anything but the coldness of her hand and the rattling wheeze of her breath. Until, suddenly, he heard a whispered, “Fenris?”

His head snapped up. She was looking at him, her eyes glassy but lucid. She licked her chapped lips and coughed pitifully into her free hand. He said nothing, and she looked up at the canopy above her with a wan smile. “It must be bad if you’re here,” she croaked. 

Say something, he willed himself, but no words would come. His heart was full to bursting with all the things he wanted to say, but he could say none of it, not when she was looking at him with those wide, searching grey eyes, as if he could give her something he knew he could never give. 

“I know I’m dying,” she said simply, looking back up at the canopy. She coughed, wheezed, and cleared her throat. He wanted to deny it, wanted to scream that it wasn’t true, but… he knew. “I’m glad you came,” she sighed.

“Hawke—“ he said, voice thick. 

She shook her head and smiled. “You don’t have to say anything. I understand. I forgive you.”

_I love you_, he didn’t say. 

“Will you stay with me? Just for tonight.” She looked so earnest despite her sunken cheeks and sweating brow, and he nodded. She weakly tugged at his hand to get him off his knees, then chuckled hoarsely. “Porcupine.”

He arched a brow at her and she looked like she wanted to laugh, but couldn’t. “Varric once said you look like an angsty porcupine. I see it now.”

Fenris looked down at himself and swallowed hard. He began to unbuckle his gauntlets, pulled them off, and set them on the floor. Next came his breastplate, which he treated with just as much care. He felt stripped bare, despite being in a linen vest and his leggings, but it reminded him sharply of her skin on his, her fingers unbuckling his armor deftly, her laughter on his lips.

When at last he came back to himself, he slipped into bed next to Hawke. Her skin was on fire despite being so clammy, but none of that mattered as he pulled her into the circle of his arms, her head resting gently on his shoulder. He ran his fingers through the long hair he loved so much.

“I missed you,” she sighed. He continued to stroke her hair, saying nothing, finding nothing he could say. “Fenris, I just want you to know—“ she paused, coughing violently. “I’ll always be with you.” 

_There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you_, he didn’t say.

“Thank you for being here.” Her voice was drifting, getting softer. He could feel her body slackening as consciousness slipped away again. He clutched her tightly to his chest, refusing to ever let go, and forced himself to keep breathing.

—

He knew the instant it happened. She had been sleeping peacefully, perhaps more peacefully than she had in months, when suddenly she gasped loudly and then… nothing. She went limp in his arms, and he pulled her even closer to him, squeezing his eyes shut. He pressed his lips to the top of her head, trying to ignore the howling in his head. He knew he should get up, get Bodahn or Anders or anybody, but he couldn’t let her go. 

_I love you_, he didn’t say. _I love you to death._

**Author's Note:**

> I am sad and when I am sad I torture my favorite characters.
> 
> Very very heavily inspired by Kamelot's "Love You to Death."


End file.
